


Straitlaced

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Corsetry, Derek discovers a kink, Kinktober, M/M, Panties, Stiles in a corset, brief mention of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 22:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16334054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Corsets are wonderful back support. They're also really hot. Who knew?





	Straitlaced

**Author's Note:**

> For the_deep_magic, who gave a lovely beta read and said, "I can't believe you were honestly thinking of not writing smut for this, what the fuck, SMUT IS ALWAYS THE RIGHT CHOICE." Who am I to argue with that logic?
> 
> Written for the Kinktober prompt "corset", which was like, for day 4 or something many days ago. Whoops.

After the most recent messy fight with baddies, Stiles spends some time in a back brace. He’s getting too old for this shit, he thinks as he winces and reaches for the ibuprofen, and all at the ripe young age of twenty two. His teenage visions of his own future had never included medically sanctioned supportive wear, but nevertheless, youthful or not, his back gives him some serious pain after getting thrown against a pile of cinder blocks, and thus: a back brace. 

He hates it. It’s bulky, and it’s ugly, and it restricts his mobility. He’s always felt that pretty much the only things he has going for him physically are agility and a certain wiry-ness that lets him slip around unheeded until he bashes something over the head with whatever convenient large, blunt, object he can lay hands on. The back brace, with its rustling velcro and weirdly tight suspenders negates all of that and simultaneously makes him feel like Jimbo the Janitor, groaning as he bends over to pick up some kid’s discarded candy wrapper from the linoleum.

“So get something else,” Lydia says, after he’s finished whining at her from his spot flat on the floor of her room. The eyeroll is implied in her tone. Her perfectly manicured nails whisper on the pages of her math textbook, and Stiles frowns. 

“Like what? I don’t think these things come in all that many styles,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the offending garment where it lies discarded beside him. 

Lydia purses her lips. “There are other options.” She turns another page, her pencil scratching on her notebook. “My great-grandmother always wore a corset. Swore by it for back trouble, wore it till the day she died at ninety-seven.”

“A corset? Seriously?” Stiles’ mouth falls open. “We’re not Victorians, Lydia. Aren’t those just like...for naughty sexy times?”

“No, Stiles,” she answers distractedly, pencil going at a furious clip. “A real corset is an expensive, sturdy, well-made piece of clothing.” She pauses. “Whether or not you get off on it is a different question, but they really do provide good back support.”

“Well,” Stiles says, still struggling to picture it, “I’m sure I can’t afford one anyway, so I think I’m stuck with Ol’ Lumpy here.” He pokes the brace idly, making the velcro scrape against itself.

Lydia just hmms, her attention back on her homework, and Stiles sighs softly at the ceiling.

\--

Twelve days later there’s a package for Mssr. S. Stilinski on his front step wrapped in brown paper, the return address lacking any sort of identifying name. He shakes it first, and when it doesn’t explode, takes it inside and grabs his knife. When he slices carefully through the tape and peels back the lid, several inches of black brocade stare up at him from the white interior of the box.

“Lydia,” he says, the second she picks up, “what.”

“Stiles,” she sighs, sounding bored, “we’ve been over this. I’m rich. I’m bored. And I still have your measurements from when I made you go to Daddy’s charity ball with me last year.”

“But…”

“No,” she says firmly, “I’ll be over in twenty minutes. Don’t touch it without washing your hands.”

\--

“It’s a Victorian style underbust, or modeled on that cut anyway, but tailored for an angular frame,” she says, holding Stiles’ body in front of her in the full-length mirror. “The point of it is to provide support and a straight silhouette, so we’re not going to lace it super tight. You’re not corset training.”

“Corset training?” Stiles asks, and he can’t help it if he sounds a little breathless. He doesn’t generally find himself attractive, but he can’t deny that the shaped black brocade against the expanse of his white skin is more than a little erotic. Thankfully his saggy plaid boxers somewhat ruin the effect, or he might be a lot more uncomfortable with the view right now.

“You’re not trying to shrink your waist. This is for practical purposes, not aesthetic ones.” Lydia pulls on the laces, and Stiles widens his stance. “You want to tighten a corset toward the middle,” she says, and yanks firmly at the top and the bottom of the laces on his back. “If it’s been set up properly, the laces should form Xs that you can pull on to easily tighten it, one pair at a time.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. He can feel the constriction, and even though it’s a long way from cutting off his breath, he feels a little light-headed. 

“When you get to the middle, and it’s as tight as you want it, you just tie off the remaining laces in a bow.” Lydia takes his hand and guides it back to feel the long line of perfectly even lacing down his back, the tails of the laces. “It’ll take you a little while to get used to doing it yourself, but you should get the hang of it pretty quickly.”

Stiles just nods, running a finger down the shining strip of hook and eye closures on the front that stretches from his sternum to his pelvic bone. It feels good, he thinks, firm and solid and… safe.

“Thanks,” he breathes, and Lydia just nods in the mirror. 

“You’re welcome,” she says as he pulls his t-shirt on over it, turning sideways to see what it looks like. He’s standing a little straighter than usual, but otherwise there’s no discernable change. He likes it, he thinks, considering the effect. It’s his secret.

\--

Lydia, as always, is right: It does help his back, and has the unexpected side effect of also helping his anxiety. There’s just something about the pressure of it, the way he feels held and contained that’s comforting, weird as it is. He makes himself take it off to sleep, because he knows it’s not healthy to wear it 24/7, but there’s a subtle sense of relief he feels when he can put it back on again in the morning, when he can lace himself smoothly into a sense of security. 

It’s easily the most expensive thing he’s ever owned, costing more than even his laptop, and he cares for it as well as he can. He makes sure to spot clean it if he spills food on himself, and takes to wearing a sleeveless undershirt beneath it to keep the brocade away from his skin. A modern chemise, he supposes, because of course he went and read everything he could find  about the correct historical undergarments for every iteration of corsetry through the last five hundred years. (He’ll give the crotchless bloomers a miss, thanks, even if he does get the practicality.)

He’s plenty happy with it already, but then a second side benefit makes itself known a month later when some jumped-up vampire wannabe takes a swipe at him with a literal knife and slices right through his sweatshirt. Stiles leaps back, thinking for a second that he’s going to be clutching his guts in his hand, but no. Turns out one thing about wearing a literal steel cage around your midsection is that it deflects blades aimed at you, and well, Stiles is down with that. Chainmail it ain’t, but it’s a good several steps better than simple fabric and squishy flesh. He takes himself home to stitch up the hole in his hoodie, and carefully mends the rent in the brocade as well, meticulously re-burying the shining steel boning under black thread.

\--

Months pass, and Stiles can lace himself up in under a minute, pressure even and just the right amount of tight around his ribs. He can see now how his body is changing, his spine standing straighter in the shower, his pelvis moving more independently of his sternum. He’d worried at first about the effect of the constricted feeling during a panic attack, but the first time he got one, he fisted a hand in the laces and pulled, and instead of making him feel choked, the insistent press of the boning gave him a focus for his body while he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth till it passed. Still, for all his best efforts, daily wear is starting to show - the top edge along the sides is shiny from rubbing against his arms, and the fabric is beginning to look worn where the waist of his jeans moves against it. He despairs, but starts saving anyway, slipping his spare change into a jar when he remembers, shoving it deep into his bookshelf to keep himself from counting it obsessively.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have worried. Lydia gets him two more for Christmas, one a midnight blue exactly the same as the first, the second a wine-dark scarlet that dips slightly lower across his hips and rises in a curve up over his breast bone nearly to his clavicles. It makes crossing his legs a little complicated when he sits, but the added coverage makes him feel like he’s wearing armor, and when he puts it on for the first time and stares in the mirror, he can’t shake the feeling that he looks both cared for and dangerous. It’s a stunning combination, and even as he yanks his t-shirt back into place, he can’t help but smile.

\--

There’s a fight that crops up in February, on Valentine’s Day, to be exact, which is re-fucking-diculous, but also par for the course these days, Stiles thinks. Two witches and some sort of demonic wraith they’ve captured are passing through town semi-peacefully, but then the wraith breaks free, because of course it does, and suddenly everyone’s out in the freezing damp woods getting tossed around. 

They get the wraith first recaptured and then banished, because fuck if they’re gonna let the witches have it back just so it can get loose again somewhere else, and then it’s just a question of cleaning up the mess and making sure everyone’s in one piece before they order the now-traditional post-fight pizza smorgasboard. Stiles is busily brushing leaves out of his hair when Derek wanders over, and he doesn’t think anything about it until he notices that Derek’s gone completely still.

“What,” Stiles says, patting himself down. “Did I miss something? Am I bleeding? Is there wraith spooge on my….oh.” His hands reach his midsection and feel the shreds of his hoodie and t-shirt hanging loose. The wraith’s claws must’ve gotten him without him noticing, but that wouldn’t account for the look in Derek’s eyes… “Hey, Derek,” Stiles says, modulating his tone to something soft, “hey, I’m ok. C’mere.” He waits till Derek has stepped close, and then takes his hand, because they’ve been fighting goons together for six years now, and he knows how Derek worries. “Here,” Stiles says, pressing Derek’s hands against his middle, “see? I’m fine. It didn’t get to skin.” 

Derek nods slowly, but his brow hasn’t relaxed, so Stiles gets ahold of Derek’s other hand and wraps it around his waist. “Inhale, Derek. I’m not bleeding; you’d smell it if I were,” he says, and when Derek does as instructed, Stiles can see his shoulders lower as the tension subsides. His face, though, is confused, and Stiles feels one hand pressing against his abdomen in question.

“What are you…” Derek starts, and Stiles takes a step back, suddenly self-conscious. “Is that a…”

“Derek, Stiles, come on!” Erica’s shout echoes, and Stiles forces a smile in Derek’s direction before moving toward her voice and the road. 

“We’re coming!” he shouts back, and starts walking, only turning to look back when he can’t hear the sound of Derek’s footsteps following him. The look on Derek’s face is unnameable, something Stiles has never seen. It hangs somewhere in the nebulous valley between shock and want, and that… Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that, so he shrugs his shoulders, pulls his ruined t-shirt tight around him, and makes for the road.

\--

He’s just finished hooking the last of the closures on the front of his navy underbust and is wrapping his hands in the ties to lace himself up when his window slides open and Derek drops in.

Stiles’ first impulse is to grab for a t-shirt, but for one thing, it’s too late- Derek’s eyes are already wide and also, dammit, Stiles refuses to be embarrassed by this. He’s a goddamn adult, and even if wearing a corset  _ were  _ a kink for him instead of a slightly hot practicality, no one gets to judge him for it.

“Derek, if you ever learn to knock and use a door like a normal person, I will die of shock,” he says instead, pulling expertly at the laces on his back. “What’s up?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Derek asks, leaning back on the window frame and watching Stiles’ hands with a level of intense interest that he usually reserves for watching prey, and... that’s interesting. Stiles had thought last time that Derek might not… he doesn’t know what he thought, actually; in retrospect, probably Derek wouldn’t care at all, but at the time, he’d still been hopped up on adrenaline and reacting purely out of his anxiety brain instead of a realistic evaluation of the man he’s come to know better than he ever expected. He’d hidden and run, without giving Derek any space to respond.

Stiles makes his hands slow on the laces, pulling them taut with exacting precision, watching Derek’s face like a hawk as he lets the ties drape through his fingers. Derek bites his lip, his eyes dark with concentration, and by all that’s holy, Stiles may have accidentally discovered a kink in someone  _ else  _ for once. He wants to laugh, but he lets his fingers linger instead as he ties the laces off. He’s got his jeans already on and pulled up, but he takes his time with his t-shirt, making a show of stretching his arms over his head so the corset caresses his shape as the material covers his face. 

They’ve had sex before, Derek and Stiles, but it’s always been a post-fight fuck-buddy kind of arrangement; a way to deal with the rest of the adrenaline, to celebrate being alive in spite of everything. It’s good, it’s always been  _ good _ , frantic handies and enthusiastic blowjobs traded while pressed up against a tree or splayed out in the backseat of Stiles’ jeep, but Stiles never lets himself dream of it going any further, of wanting more. He squashed those thoughts years ago, locked them away and swallowed the key, but if he’s reading the look on Derek’s face right, maybe they could at least be bumping uglies more on the regular, and Stiles? Stiles is down for that. 

“So what’s the occasion?” he asks, suppressing a grin at how Derek’s claws are digging into the windowsill in spite of the rest of him remaining perfectly calm. “Just a little light B&E to keep from getting bored?”

“Sadly, no,” Derek says, and he does genuinely look disappointed for a moment before he puts on his  _ serious business _ face. “Scott found a note in a bottle out in the woods, and brought it back to show Lydia. She’s translated it, and called a pack meeting.”

“Ugh,” Stiles deflates, yanking on a hoodie and toeing into his shoes. “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I need an escort. You could just text.”

Derek rolls his eyes. The argument is a formality at this point - Derek will always come for Stiles,  presuming that he’s not literally or metaphorically tied up, because he worries about human fragility too much. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek says, rising, and tosses Stiles over his shoulder because he is the  _ worst _ , laughing as Stiles pounds fruitlessly on his back as Derek leaps down the stairs.

\--

The third time is intentional, because Stiles can’t stop thinking about the way Derek’s claws had left grooves on the underside of his windowsill, can’t banish the intense look in Derek’s eyes from his mind. And yes, maybe he’d lain awake in his bed when the whole mess with the mummy was over and jerked himself to the memory of Derek’s hands on his stomach and the thought of him digging his fingers in between the laces and holding Stiles in place. It’s why he’s decided to take matters into his own hands now.

He stays late after a pack meeting, lounging around and pretending to work on deciphering some scribbled margin notes in one of the dusty old grimoires the Argents produce regularly from their library. Derek’s puttering in the kitchen and everyone else fucks off after a while, Scott and Allison to their place, Erica to Boyd’s, Lydia to her hot tub. Stiles gets a little absorbed in the work at one point, but snaps back to his plan when he hears Derek enter the room. 

“Stiles,” Derek starts, frowning, and Stiles takes the opportunity to glue his eyes to Derek’s face and leisurely stretch, allowing his shirt to ride up and expose the very edge of the crimson fabric beneath. Subtlety’s overrated, he thinks, and can’t help but grin as Derek’s eyes flash and he bites at his lip. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, hooking a leg over the back of the couch and pushing his hands over his head so that his back arches shamelessly over the arm, “what’s up?”

“You’re a menace,” Derek says, but there’s amusement in his tone and promise in his stride as he makes his way to the couch, grabbing Stiles’ ankle and pulling in one swift motion that drops Stiles to the sofa cushions and yanks his shirt up even further.

“Yeah?” Stiles says again, but it’s breathier this time, and Derek’s eyes are glowing as he sets one knee between the spread of Stiles’ legs and brings a hand down to grasp at the curve of Stiles’ waist. 

“Why…,” Derek starts and then trails off, his hand pressing up under Stiles’ shirt, tracing the shape of the boning to where it ends just below Stiles’ pecs before arching up over his sternum. The pressure of his hand feels  _ good _ , and Stiles has to force his eyes back open to catch Derek’s gaze. 

“When I hurt my back,” he says, and Derek gets a hand under his side and lifts, feeling the heft of Stiles’ weight as the corset moves in one motion, “fucking  _ stupid  _ velcro-and-bullshit back brace,” Stiles gets out and then moans, because there is a claw tracing the edge of the fabric where it curves into the top of his jeans.

“I wasn’t aware they prescribed corsets at the hospital,” Derek says, his voice thick with what Stiles can distinctly identify as both amusement and arousal as he pops the button on Stiles’ jeans with his thumb and pulls back the opening, a low growl starting in his chest as he sees what Stiles is wearing beneath the denim.

“Corsets were a better alternative,” Stiles grumbles, hooking his hands behind Derek’s neck, and fuck  _ yes _ , he’d replaced his sad old boxers months ago with several pairs of soft, silken boy short briefs in colors that compliment the fabrics of his corsets, and that choice looks like it’s paying off in every way right now. “Turns out I like them,” he grins, “turns out  _ you  _ like them,” and Derek huffs out a laugh, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. 

“Turns out I do,” he agrees, slipping a hand into the back of Stiles’ jeans and palming his ass. 

“Turns out you do wha…  _ augghh _ !!” comes a voice from the door, and Derek leaps back as though he’s been scalded, dropping Stiles unceremoniously on the couch. 

“Isaac, what the  _ fuck _ ,” Stiles groans, flinging an arm up over his eyes.

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Isaac whines, pulling a face, “believe me, it was  _ not  _ my intention to interrupt... whatever this is.” He gestures between where Stiles lies spread out on the couch, red-cheeked and panting, and where Derek’s standing with an unmistakable bulge in his jeans. “I just…”

“What?” Derek asks calmly, but Stiles flatters himself that there’s a hint of irritation in his undertone. “What’s wrong, Isaac?”

“I just…” he hangs his head, “I smelled something funny in the woods, and you’re always saying how we shouldn’t just go check things out on our own… so I thought…”

“You did the right thing,” Derek says firmly, and Isaac straightens up under the approval of his alpha, and fuck, this is one of the things Stiles loves best - how Derek has grown into being an alpha, how he cares for everyone in his pack. He sighs dramatically and flaps his hand at them.

“Go,” he says, as though they need his permission, “go sniff out all the mysteries, Scooby Doo. Text if you need help.”

“Okay!” Isaac shouts, jumping through the door and clattering down the stairs. “We will!”

“You,” Derek says, striding around the couch as Stiles sits up and grabbing Stiles’ chin in his hand, “and I,” he whispers, his breath moving across Stiles’ mouth as Derek leans in to kiss him firmly and with clear intent, “have unfinished business. Don’t. Go. Anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breaths, “okay. I won’t.”

Derek kisses him again, mouth warm and soft against Stiles’ own, and then he’s gone in a swirl of leather jacket and clattering boots and Stiles falls back against the couch, hands covering his face.

“Fuck,” he says with fervor, “ _ fuck _ .”

\--

He waits till he gets a text from Derek confirming that everything’s fine before he lets himself relax. As much as Derek told him to stay put, if something happened that necessitated calling the rest of the pack, Stiles would have gone out with everyone else, unfinished business or no. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to postpone plans for pack emergencies, and he’s sure it won’t be the last.

But, for once, things go smoothly, and Derek texts to say he’s dropping Isaac off and will be there soon, instead of to say that there’s a monster in the woods and he needs back-up. Stiles freezes for a solid minute trying to decide what to do before he decides he may as well just go for it, and climbs the stairs to Derek’s room. In for a penny, in for a pound; hanged for a sheep as well as a lamb; etc, etc, he thinks.

He may not be a werewolf, but Stiles can smell the way Derek’s room holds Derek’s scent when he enters, hints of Derek’s aftershave and the scent of his skin clinging to the sheets, to the clothes in the open closet. The room is small and wood paneled, queen-size bed shoved into the corner without a headboard, unmade, blankets and sheets spilling off the edge and onto the floor. There’s no window, which makes a somewhat depressing kind of sense, given that Derek no doubt wants to be able to actually  _ sleep  _ sometimes, and having only one entrance to defend probably makes that easier. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and kicks off his sneakers, fumbling at his waistband in a sudden hurry. Derek drives fast, and he doesn’t want to be caught awkwardly with his pants around his knees. He gets his shoes and socks off, then jeans, and finally he pulls his t-shirt off over his head and drops it on top of the small pile. There are goosebumps on his arms for all that the air is close, and he refuses to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own mind that he’s nervous. His dick is limp and still in his underwear, and completely uninterested even after a cursory couple of rubs. Oh well, he can’t really blame it, he thinks- this is a risk, a limb, a gamble, and even with Derek’s earlier interest, Stiles can’t help but worry that this is too much, that he’s misinterpreted. 

Giving it all up as a bad job, he lets himself flop face-first on the bed, squirming until he’s comfortable, face shoved into the pillow and one leg pulled up. His foot rubs rhythmically back and forth on the sheet to soothe the strangeness of the situation. 

In spite of his anxiety, Derek’s smell is overwhelming here, in his bed, and Stiles can’t help but feel protected, safe, comforted. He lets his mind wander, toes rasping on the fabric, and before he realizes what’s happening, he’s drifted off.

\--

He wakes to a low growl that vibrates through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck and making a shiver rustle down his spine. 

He licks his lips. “...Derek?” 

“Were you expecting someone else?” Derek asks, and the rumble in his voice goes straight to Stiles’ dick, even as he laughs at the question. 

“Well,” he says, coming up on his elbows and hoping the pillow print on his face isn’t obvious in the light from the hall as he turns to look over his shoulder, “I  _ had  _ heard rumors that there was a big, bad, wolf around…”

“Oh, there is,” Derek says, moving toward the bed, and as Stiles starts to roll over, a wide hand presses into his lower back, effectively pinning him to the spot. “Don’t move, little red,” Derek whispers, and Stiles can’t help the shudder that shakes through him. He lets himself fall back to the mattress, breathing through his mouth. He can feel the heat of Derek’s body on the inside of his bare legs, can feel Derek’s weight shift the bed as he kneels between Stiles’ spread knees.

“ _ Jesus _ , Stiles,” Derek says, and all the teasing is gone out of his voice. He runs a hand across the back of Stiles’ neck and down, one claw gently catching on the warp and weft of the laces where they leave their small gaps over Stiles’ bare skin. “Do you have  _ any  _ idea what you look like?” he breathes, and Stiles squirms beneath him, rubbing his bare foot against Derek’s denim-clad knee.

“No,” Stiles answers before he thinks about it, too turned on and too honest as he digs his fingers into the sheets. Derek’s free hand caresses the curve of his ass, claws whispering over the silk mesh of his shorts, tracing faint lines into his tender flesh. 

“You look,” Derek starts, then trails off as his hand travels down to the inside of Stiles’ knee. He pushes, and Stiles’ leg bends more, sliding up next to his hip and leaving him wide open and helpless beneath Derek’s hand that’s still holding him in place. “You look like a feast,” Derek says finally, and Stiles can’t help but laugh, high and breathless. “You look like you were made for this,” Derek continues, running both hands up Stiles’ side, pressing in against the boning with enough pressure that Stiles has to exhale, breathing in carefully through his mouth, his chest flexing as his lungs expand outward instead of down. 

“Maybe I was,” Stiles says, and Derek gets a hand under Stiles’ bent knee and flips him easily so that Stiles comes to rest with a  _ whumph  _ on his back, staring up at Derek where he leans down, his silhouette blocking out the light. He’s shirtless, but still in his jeans, and Stiles has the inexplicable urge to cover himself with his hands, so he anchors them to Derek’s bare shoulders instead, giving himself permission to run them over Derek’s firm trapezius and down onto his upper arms. 

The look on Derek’s face is something Stiles has never seen before, and he reaches up to touch it without thinking, only to have Derek’s teeth close around his fingers, sharp and oh so careful. 

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, “ _ Derek _ ,” and Derek shakes Stiles’ fingers lightly before letting them go, a wolf at play, one hand firm on Stiles’ waist, the other tracing the upper edge of the corset until it finds the small, tight bud of his nipple and presses down.

“Why,” Derek says, and his voice sounds wrecked. “Why wear this to my house, why show me.”

The unexpected bonus effect of Derek’s fingers driving him to distraction is that Stiles doesn’t have the brain cells free to overthink, so he just gasps out, “you seemed like you liked it. I  _ wanted  _ you to like it,” before he can think better of it.

“I do,” Derek murmurs, bringing both hands to Stiles’ hips and lifting just enough that the edge of the corset leans up and he can slide his thumbs up under the boning as his fingers cup Stiles’ ass, “oh, I  _ do _ .” It has the effect of tipping Stiles’ hips forward and bringing his crotch in contact with Derek’s knee, and there’s absolutely no hiding the broken whine in his voice as he reaches for Derek’s button fly. 

“Please,” he begs, already too far gone,  _ always  _ too far gone where Derek’s concerned to have any dignity left at all. “ _ Please _ , Derek.”

“Okay,” Derek says, his voice and hands soft as he strokes down Stiles’ shoulders and arms, the touch grounding Stiles into the moment, even as his body continues to shake. “I’ve got you.” He cups Stiles’ face in one hand as he uses the other to unbutton himself and pull his pants sharply down, then leans away briefly to strip them off. It’s only a moment before he’s back between Stiles’ legs, but it’s too long, and Stiles whines again at the heat of Derek’s well-furred thighs against his own bare skin. His dick is pulling at the fabric enclosing it, and the feel of Derek’s hand stroking down his sides is simultaneously too much and not enough. 

“You look…” Derek starts, and Stiles opens his eyes from where he’d squeezed them shut, trying to imagine what he looks like to Derek with his preternatural sight, how he seems here with his arms flung over his head, the blood flushing in his cheeks and neck, encased in red brocade from his hip bones up, cock thick and drooling against the thin silk holding it down. “You look like you were made for  _ me _ ,” Derek says finally, his voice barely audible and deeper than Stiles has ever heard, almost as though he’s talking to himself, even as his hands remake Stiles’ form beneath him. 

“Maybe,” Stiles says, screwing up every ounce of courage he can find, catching Derek’s eyes and holding them as he breathes it out. “Maybe I was.”

He finds himself on his hands and knees before he even realizes what’s happening, and then his underwear is unceremoniously yanked down below of the curve of his ass, his knees spread wide as Derek slips his cock in behind Stiles’ balls, filling the back of his briefs so that the pressure of the fabric pulls his own dick down. Stiles groans aloud, the sound echoing in the small room but utterly failing to drown out the sound of Derek’s breathing as he hooks his claws in the lacing that runs down Stiles’ spine and hauls him upright, setting a precarious pace as he pulls Stiles back and forth against himself solely by the laces of Stiles’ corset. 

It’s too much friction on his dick, and there’s nothing for him to grab with his hands so they’re flailing ridiculously in mid-air as he throws his head back against Derek’s shoulder and pants, and none of it matters at all, because it is also the single hottest thing Stiles has ever experienced. Derek is growling in his ear, his thrusts going harder and faster, and Stiles crashes into his own orgasm without any warning, his body arcing back toward Derek’s chest as he shouts his release, Derek coming hard behind him not two seconds later, his spunk hot and thick as it drips down Stiles’ thighs. 

Stiles doesn’t quite faceplant onto the bed, but it’s entirely due to Derek’s reflexes, and not his own, which allow Derek to lay him down gently. He can’t quite catch his breath, and Derek reaches over and slices open the line of lacing without a second thought, the razor edge of his claw parting the sides of the corset like a breeze, letting them fall away and leaving Stiles’ bare, sweating skin open to the room. Stiles shivers in response even as he fills his lungs, and Derek’s hand comes down to rest in the middle of his back, filling the space and providing enough pressure that Stiles’ body relaxes, melting into the bed. Derek’s thumb is rubbing gently back and forth on his skin, and the room is full of the sound of their breathing. Stiles feels himself fading, can’t help but start to slip away, when he hears Derek make a disgruntled sound.

Stiles makes an inquiring noise, and Derek exhales sharply, his face pinching up in thought.

“...you wear one of these every day?” he asks, his tone caught between flat and incredulous.

“Yeah?” Stiles answers, too blissed out to worry about where this question is going, even as his mind tries to spin up.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Derek says, his thumb pausing its motion, then starting up again as he sighs resignedly. “I’m never going to get anything done again.”

Stiles laughs till he falls off the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you need a visual, this is not *exactly* what I had pictured for Stiles' first corset, but it's plenty close enough. Enjoy! https://www.darkgarden.com/corsets/tailored-cincher


End file.
